


and one of them will be watching you run

by eudaimon



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was a tiny child, his mother was a runner.  She won medals, running in the grey, misting rain.  He learned from her.</p>
<p>After an away-mission, Sulu warms up Chekov the old fashioned way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and one of them will be watching you run

_and I'll Build A House Inside Of You_  
i'll Go In Through The Mouth  
i'll Draw Three Figures On Your Heart  
one Of Them Will Be Me As A Boy  
one Of Them Will Be Me  
one Of Them Will Be Me Watching You Run 

At first, the rain reminded him of Russia, _Sankt-Peterburg_ in the Spring-time, with the fine rain sheeting as he ran with his head down, feet pounding on the concrete, careful to avoid the cracks. Superstition was a curse placed on children by parents.

He used to run with his sleeves pulled down over his hands and headphones in, music throbbing in time with the pulse in his head. He used to run and run. He was never trying to get anywhere, but maybe he was planning for the future, when he'd have a long way to go. He used to cut pictures of Starfleet ships out of magazines and paste them onto the slanted ceiling of his little bedroom.

When he was a tiny child, his mother was a runner. She won medals, running in the grey, misting rain. He learned from her.

On the slick grey rock, waiting for someone, anyone, to beam him up, Chekov closed his eyes and thought about running. No streets to run through, but, on off-hours, he did laps of storage decks, out of everybody's way, sleeves pulled down over his hands, headphones in, music throbbing. Sometimes, he ran so hard that there was as trembling that started in his lips and ended up in his finger-bones. It reminded him of the first time he was on a ship that went to Warp; pounding, throbbing, hurting, almost, closer and closer to something and then...boom! 

Faster than light.

Shivering almost violently, he shoved both hands under his arms, trying to warm the tips of chill fingers. Cold water dripped from his hair and ran down the back of his collar. In Russia, there were still people who followed roads that only reindeer knew, and they stitched fur and leather clothes that would last them whole lifetimes. In his state-of-the-art micro-fibres, Chekov froze and wondered if things had really moved on that much at all. 

Maybe the world never really got better, and that was why they were so desperate to leave it behind and look for new ones?

When he was a tiny boy, his father used to catch wild rabbits, following secret paths in dark forests. Pavel was still learning all of the things that his father always instinctively knew. There weren't any forests on that cold, grey rock.

His communicator beeped and hissed, unhappy with the interference from the storm.

"Transport in five...four...three..."

There was a prayer, whispered in Russian, that was as much a thank-you as anything. As a tiny child, he'd watched his mother say it over medals, his father say it over limp softly furred bodies.

As blue light buzzed gently around him, Chekov let his head roll back, felt the rain falling on his face, colder now, almost too cold to be believed, and he told himself how superstition is also a gift given by parents to their children.

For a moment after that, he didn't exist.

And it was worse, somehow, the cold, once he was back on the Enterprise, on the transporter pad with home beneath his feet. He stood there dripping, still shivering violently, and, at the console, Mr Scott was staring at him.

"Bit wet, are we?" he asked.

Chekov sniffed and wiped his nose on his oversized cuff. Water dripped from the hem of his coat and pooled on the floor.

"Wery vet," he said. His accent even sounded thick in his own ears just then, chattering between his teeth.

"Go on with you, lad," said Mr Scott, attention already on something other than the dripping wet ensign just now stepping down off the transporter pad, with his arms still wrapped around himself, still shivering violent. "Go get dry or somethin', would ya? You're makin' the place look untidy."

Chekov shuffled. It was too much effort to lift his booted feet. It seemed like an unimaginably long way to his room, a dry sweater, hot sweet tea in a painted glass bought all the way from St Petersberg wrapped in socks. A book, maybe. Sleep. Hours of sleep until the next time he could walk onto the bridge and everything would be clean and dry and humming in place. As he walked, he tried to undo the zippers and toggles and his coat but his numb fingers ignored him and, in the end, he stayed sodden and left a trail of indistinct wet footprints behind. The door opened with a soft _whoosh_ under his hand.

He wasn't alone. 

There had been more than one away-mission to the surface in the rain. Sulu's hair had had time to dry into fingered spikes and he was wearing one of Chekov's sweaters, the grey one, too long through the arms, pulled out of shape at the neck. It was his favourite, and he liked it even better, now. As he stared, a bead of water trickled down out of his hair and dripped off the end of his nose. He opened his mouth to say something. He forgot what it was.

"You made it back then?"

The door closed behind him and he caught a draft which sent a violent shiver straight down his spin. It reminded him of something his father used to say. Arms still wrapped around himself, helpless to stop it, Chekov shivered like a man who already knew where his bones were buried to be walked over. He managed to nod, though.

Sulu smiled and pushed up off the bed, pushing the sleeves of Chekov's sweater up around his elbows as he stepped in close, warm lips grazing against the damp, clammy skin of Chekov's cheekbone.

"We need to get you out of these clothes."

The coat went first, hitting the ground with a sullen, sodden sound. Without it, his uniform clung across his shoulders and he let his head tip forward, pulling futilely at the hem of his shirt. He didn't have the strength in his hands to pull it up over his head. Warm soft fingers covered his, stopping them. What he knew by then was this: that even the softest things in the world could have the most surprising strength. He'd never forgotten watching Hikaru Sulu's vitals leap and dip on the screen, telling a story as obviously as images could, that moment when Sulu's body had turned weapon. How could he ever forget a thing like that? 

Those warm hands pushed up over his belly and chest, taking his shirt with them. He thought about how he'd never really known how to do anything that he didn't learn from his parents, right up until his Mama died, when, instead of tears everything he'd ever wanted to be exploded out of him like the way that stars are born.

After his mother died, Sulu was the first person to call him 'Pavel' like it meant something, like it wasn't just a collection of cold stands from a cold place. _Pavel Andreievich Chekov_. Only living son of Andrei Chekov. His mother's name was Marta.

Stripped to the waist, he was still shivering. Sulu smoothed one hand over hair which, when wet, held a softer curl. He pulled Chekov forward against him, bare skin against wool that had a pleasant coarseness. With Chekov cradled against him, Sulu's hands chafed bared arms, rubbing to warm him up. Friction. Generation of heat. When he was a tiny child, his father delivered a lamb on the cobbles but the baby had stayed blue. He was so cold that he felt like a creature made entirely out of ice and rain and clouds. Blue forever. 

Sulu cupped his whole cheek warmly, bent his head and kissed him. Before he was even really aware of it, a needy little noise spilled out of him. His eyes widened. Young as he was, he never begged. He'd gone into this, whatever it was, willingly. After the first time, he'd always shook but never as much as he had the first time.

Less and less, he was trembling from the cold. He curled one bare arm around Sulu's neck, holding on to him tight, for dear life. Sulu's hands were still chafing against him, his arms and his upper back, pulling him in closer and then pushing him back, tipping his head and pulling at his shoulders, changing the angle and depth of the kiss. More than once, Chekov had tried to put his finger on what this was, what it meant. In the end, he gave up.

Some things just felt like arriving home. He'd felt that way the first time he walked onto the bridge of the Enterprise. He felt that way now.

He had enough feeling back in his fingers to unbutton his own pants, shoving them down around his hips, still needy, still trembling. Sometimes, he fell asleep and woke up with Sulu pressed against his back, one knee pressed between his thighs. Born in a cold, dark country, he'd had to become his own source of heat. As a kid, he'd been fascinated by space and then a star had fallen into the heart of his Mama's brain and gone supernova and he'd been running ever since. 

Sulu pressed him back one step towards the bed and another needy noise leaked out of him and he pushed one hand into Sulu's hair, pulling. The rush of blood to his still chill face stung.

"Stop," murmured Sulu, as Chekov's knees hit the bed-frame and he sits, suddenly. His hands come up to Sulu's hips, fingertips tracing around his waistband until he could pull at his belt. Sulu tugged the sweater up over his head and let it drop to the floor. Tousled, he looked down, watching while Chekov pulled his belt undone, started on buttons. Sulu pushed both hands into Chekov's hair.

"Slow down," he said. 

Chekov dragged in a breath and leaned forward until he could rest his forehead against Sulu's bare belly.

"I can't," he whispered.

"Try."

He lay back on his bed, kicking out of his boots and then lifting his hips so that Sulu could tug his pants down and off, taking his underwear with them. The first few times, he'd been self-conscious when stripped naked, blushed darkly and turned his face to press his nose into his raised arm. Now, he propped himself up on his elbows and watched as Sulu pulled off the rest of his clothes and crawled up onto the bed. On all fours, he leaned down and kissed Chekov, pressing down with his hips until they rubbed together in a way that made Chekov arch, breathlessly whining. Sulu grinned against his mouth, reaching up blindly, fumbling for what he knew was there, tucked behind a thick, well read copy of a book by Nabakov, safe from the prying eyes of female Ensigns who took any excuse to drink tea from glasses and make eyes at Chekov that he hardly even noticed.

"Feeling pretty warm there, Pavel," murmured Sulu, bending his head to kiss him as his pressed lower with two slick fingers.

He nodded. He could feel the heat in his skin now, pulsing, as he lifted his hips, hitched one leg against Sulu's thigh to give him room. He bit his lip and rocked down onto Sulu's slender fingers, as used to handling a weapon as a tiller as a skinny Russian boy in a borrowed bed. They kissed slowly, gently, warmth radiating from one and back again. There was a time for urgency, times when they fucked standing up, his back bent, his cheek pressed against the smooth surface of his desk. More than once, he dropped to his knees and pushed Sulu back in his desk chair, already in his uniform, sucked his dick fast and hard and gone onto the bridge with that taste still on the tip of his tongue.

Now, though, it was different. A quieter, slower time, after the rain.

Sulu's slick fingers were against Chekov's cheek, his breath hot against the other as he shifted, as they moved together, trying to work out the angles. No equation for this. It happened in a slightly different way each time. It reminded Chekov of the fact that there was a line that you could cross and look up and see different stars in the sky. A Southern Cross. Something to guide you home again.

Like magic. Like faith.

They fucked slowly, both of Chekov's legs wrapped up around Sulu's hips, Sulu's weight balanced on his palms, on the heels of his hands, as he rolled his hips, pushed deeper. One of Chekov's arms was thrown up over his head, fingers curled through the frame of the bed, holding on. The other was wrapped around Sulu's neck, one hand pressed against the almost feverishly warm skin between Sulu's shoulder-blades. He traced his fingers across the sharpness of bone and thought about a story that his mother told him once about a wife who was also a dragon and a prince who kept coming home.

He sighed, warmly and started to let his hand drift down from over his head, but Sulu's fingers wrapped around his wrist, holding it there, against his cheek. Fingers curled.

"Let me," he said, shifting until he could wrap his hand around Chekov's cock between them. The change in angle put their faces closer, and Chekov's mouth quirked in a little smile, his eyes crossing just a little until they focused.. He turned his head, squirming down against Sulu's dick and his hand, stretching until he could press a sucking kiss to the tender inside of Sulu's wrist. He groaned softly, teetering on the edge of it, something so huge but so familiar. He sucked on the skin under his lips, stifling a louder groan as he came. He'd leave a mark, but it would be easily covered by a uniform sleeve.

These things had happened before, doomed to happen again.  
Doomed was the wrong word for what was happening here.

It took Sulu another couple of thrusts, his head bent, face pressed into the crook of Chekov's neck, his breath sobbing out of him, and Chekov's lips against the pulse in his wrist. For a moment, afterwards, they lay there boneless, chest to chest, eyes closed. It took a long moment before either of them could move, shift into a more comfortable position in the bed. They had enough space but lay pressed together, Sulu's chest against Chekov's back, both arms around him. In a tangle of long legs, teenaged limbs still coltish, Chekov kicked the blanket off them, kept the sheet pulled up over them.

He felt Sulu's laughter as a huff of warm breath against the back of his neck.

"Too hot?"  
"Mmph."

Eyes closed, Chekov turned his face into the pillow and stifled a yawn. Blissfully warm, he could feel sleep pulling at him. He threaded his fingers through Sulu's and held on tight. In a couple of hours, he knew, he'd wake up without him, gone back to a shift at the helm. He'd have a few hours more to sleep and time for a run, music pounding, sleeves pulled down over his hands. On a shelf above the bed, a simple silver statue, awarded for first place in the Starfleet Marathon. He'd been the youngest ever winner, somebody had said. His muscles ached like he'd been running, and Sulu's arms were slender and strong around him.

When he was a tiny child, his mother was a runner and his father always knew how to find her.  
He learned everything that he is from them and, like the universe, he was still expanding, still changing, still growing into himself, still running and quietly, so quietly, giving off all of that heat.

He fell asleep, and dreamed about running in the rain.


End file.
